


On Account of All Things Sucking

by iwishiwaschaotic



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Not nearly enough Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24983335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwishiwaschaotic/pseuds/iwishiwaschaotic
Summary: So, Grantaire  had ruined his last meeting with all of them together, before it had even started.So, the rest is history.Except Enjolras is looking at him, increasingly worried, and Grantaire needs to say something. He should be angry. Enjolras does not have the right to be worried about him.He wants to say something sharp and biting, wants his voice to refrain from cracking.Too bad Grantaire can’t remember the last time he got what he wanted.------ok so Grantaire misunderstands stuff and is Sad and Anxious and then there is a confession and a kiss and that is all.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 97





	On Account of All Things Sucking

**Author's Note:**

> I made 0(zero) blowjob puns. You are very welcome.

An imperative element of human existence is knowing that there is no limit to things in life that suck. Grantaire was well acquainted with this knowledge. 

First of all, there was starvation, poverty, oppressive governments, and the knowledge that there was little to nothing anyone could do about it.  
That sucked.

Then there came the fact that for some ungodly reason it was legal to force children to memorize useless information about meaningless numbers--the kind of shit that made you stay up all night crying at your homework while your dad yelled at you.  
Math sucked.

There was more, of course. There were student loans, debt, and statistics that tell you just how unlikely you are to end up with your soulmate (it is very important to point out that said statistics would not exist were it not for math. Fuck math.)

There were homophobes and racists and sexists. There were artists who deserved to be famous but never would be, and there were pets who would never be adopted. There was the environment and global warming. There were endangered species, and there were species who used to be endangered but no one listened (or those who did listen couldn’t do anything, because they were just Human Individuals and nothing more) so the danger caught up to them and they faded into nothingness.  
Very sucky. All of it.

It sucked that Enjolras would never be able to fix it all. It sucked that no matter how many times Grantaire reminded him of this he refused to believe that, and it sucked that Grantaire loved him all the more for it.

It sucked that Enjolras hated him.

A lot sucked. The way Earth had no shortage of things that sucked was very sucky in and of itself.

Somewhere, up there with all of it, was whatever Grantaire was feeling right now. Like he had been tackled by an NFL quarterback who happened to also be part semi-truck. 

His vision was trickling back, and he could see the outlines of fuzzy faces, worried eyes. 

He meant to ask many things.  
What did I do?  
What am I doing on the floor?  
What made Enjolras look so angry? (he knew the answer to that one. It was him, it was always him.)  
What time is it?  
What the fuck?

All that came out was a strangled “Wha…”

“My God, he’s up!” Joly’s voice was ear-splitting. 

Other voices followed--too loud and too close for Grantaire to decipher. 

Grantaire thought he heard Combeferre say something about “a concussion”, and Courfeyrac saying something about “thank gravy”, and Enjolras say something about “fucking wasted”.

He tried to sit up, and ignored the spinning of the room and the way his head pounded and how his legs weren’t working and how he was-where was he? It didn’t matter, all that mattered was that he was going to be sick, so where was the trash can…

Grantaire managed to stumble over to it--ignoring his head--and he vomits, and vomits, and vomits some more.  
Not fun, to say the least.  
The opposite of fun. Very, very, sucky.

At some point a hand appears on his back, rubbing slowly, and he hears a soft “Oh,” that seemed to belong to Jehan. Grantaire looks up blearily, and yep, there’s Jehan.

“What-” Grantaire begins, but is cut off by a dry heave. He tries again. “What happened?”

Jehan’s brow furrows. “You fell off a table doing the macarena.”

Oh. If Grantaire himself sucked less, he would have been surprised at this discovery. He is in no way graceful, even when sober, and is certain that himself, falling off a table, wasted, was an extremely unpleasant sight to behold. But Grantaire was Grantaire. And Grantaire had a tendency to end up in situations like this that he had been trying (and failing, apparently) to break, so he was somewhat used to the profound humiliation he was feeling.

“Did I mess up-” Grantaire hiccuped. “Did I mess up your meeting?”

“MOVE!”  
Grantaire winced as Joly burst forward from the blurry shapes.  
“ Everyone, move. I am a doctor and I need to make sure he is okay.”

“You’re not a doctor, you’re a med student,” Bossuet reminded. 

“Close enough.” Joly started to shine a light in his eyes, and Grantaire was vaguely aware of the curses leaving his lips.

“Shouldn’t you wait until he’s less, you know…?” Combeferre was there too, apparently.

“Drunk.” Enjolras’ voice was harsh and blunt and stung his ears. So did every sound at the moment, but still.

“Right.” Joly sounded a bit disappointed.

Grantaire looked up again. Everything swayed slightly, but he could see fine. That was something. He tried to stand.

“I’m fine.” He would have sounded more convincing, if he hadn’t just realized his side was bleeding.

“Shit, I didn’t see that!” Joly scrambled off, probably for the first-aid-y stuff he always had on hand. Grantaire took that moment to look around him and try not to wobble where he stood. (he was pathetic, and wanted to go, but he didn’t have the energy.)

Joly rustled in his backpack across the room, where Bossuet was whispering something to him. Nearby, Enjolras was glowering (as is Enjolras’ custom with things Grantaire-related) and talking heatedly to a flustered Marius and weary Feuilly. Bahorel and Courfeyrac were talking too, chuckling quietly. Jehan’s gentle hand was on his shoulder. Combeferre was coming close.  
He didn’t have time to look for anyone else (was there anyone else?) because his groggy thoughts were interrupted by Combeferre.

“Take off your shirt please, Grantaire.”

Grantaire started too, but stopped, as realization crashed into him. (Great. The last thing he needed was to crash into more stuff.) 

Everyone’s eyes were on him. 

He had ruined the meeting, and was stealing their time.

God. Grantaire knew that he would do anything to try and get attention, from anyone and everyone (some more than others.) He knew that the validation he got from a few chuckles, or a pat on the shoulder, was pathetic. He knew, as well, how deeply he craved for them to care for him. But now he had it--did he have it? Did they care, were they worried? Why were they worried? He wasn’t worth worrying over. What did he do to deserve that worry, fucking get fucking wasted and fall off a fucking table?--he felt sick. If he hadn’t just emptied out the contents of his stomach completely, he would have thrown up. Again.

“Um, Grantaire? I need to see your side.” Combeferre looked worried, too. Grantaire was such a--such a piece of shit. He didn’t deserve to be worried over. And here they all were, worried. For his stupid fucking sake.

“I-I can go home. Really,” Grantaire managed to choke out. “I’m fine. It’s just a little blood, I don’t--you, you don’t. You can go back to the meeting, I’m sorry.” 

“Um, no?” Joly had come back. 

“Can you hold your shirt up, please? A little?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire was vaguely aware of himself doing so, of someone sucking in a breath, and of alcohol being wiped on his cut. 

The sting registered, barely. Grantaire was mostly focused on not staring at Enjolras--who was red-faced in his fury--and trying harder now not to cry, because he usually had no problem interrupting Enjolras’ meetings and making him mad. 

Usually, Grantaire was an ass, made a spectacle, or got into an argument (sometimes all three) and the Enjolras got mad, and Grantaire was prepared. A little. 

Usually, Grantaire knew what he was getting himself into, he just didn’t care. Because Enjolras thinking Grantaire was an asshole (which was not untrue) was better than Enjolras not thinking of Grantaire at all (again: he was pathetic). Enjolras looking at him with eyes full of malice was still Enjolras looking at him, and it still made Grantaire’s heart jump just a little too much, because it was Enjolras. Enjolras looking at him. (pathetic, pathetic, pathetic)

Being totally, completely, unbearably in love with someone who can’t stand you... sucks.

This time though, he hadn’t known what he was getting himself into. Maybe he had in the beginning, because Grantaire’s default state was expecting Enjolras to let his hate show at any given moment. But for whatever reason, it was a little shocking. (The reason being he had fallen off a table and momentarily blacked out, too drunk to mentally or emotionally prepare himself.)

Combeferre’s voice cut through Grantaire’s thoughts. “Well, you don’t need stitches, so that’s good. You have a nasty bruise forming but that-”

“CHRIST” Courfeyrac shouted and stomped across the room. “Here, R. I forgot I got this for you.”

A cold ice pack was pressed into his hand.  
“Mph,” Grantaire mumbled as a thanks, pressing it to his head.

After that, he zoned out a little.  
There was a disagreement--he didn’t exactly know what it was about, but Joly seemed upset. He hoped it worked out.

Grantaire stumbled down the stairs of their meeting place, towards his own apartment. The fact that buildings were even allowed to have this many stairs sucked so, so bad.

Grantaire wakes up and groans. His head is pounding. Who invented hangovers and why, oh why, did they hate him so? (You have to suck pretty bad to think that hangovers are a valuable addition to the world.)

Grantaire forces his eyes open, because something is off. The sheets are too soft, and they smell like lavender. Why do they smell like lavender, you ask? Grantaire asks himself the same thing.  
The answer: Grantaire is not in his own bed, which smells like nothing except for maybe fabric softener. Grantaire was in someone else’s bed. (Had he met someone at a club last night? It seemed plausible, though usually when he met people while drunk they stuck to canoodling in the bathroom and that was that. Whatever embarrassing interaction he was about to have would surely suck.)

“Grantaire! You’re awake. Great.” said Combeferre. Combeferre. A weight lifted, right off of him. Combeferre did not suck--but, Grantaire realized, as the stupid fuckng weight skipped merrily back, whatever had happened last night, and whatever imposition this was, it did suck, from Combeferre’s point of view. He sucked. (what else was new, honestly?)

Combeferre entered the room again--he had left, apparently.

“Combeferre, I’m sorry for this. I should really go.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You tried the same crap last night, remember? Now come on, let me see if you’re okay. I want to. R.” The last word (or letter--whatever) was a warning, the kind any of his friends got when he was being unecessarily pessimistic or stupid (exceptionally stupid. He was always stupid...which is is a statement that would summon the tone, but whatevs.)

“Wh-what crap?”

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “At the Musain. And when we got here, and basically every five seconds between there and here. Now let me check on you.”

Grantaire does what Combeferre tells him. He follows Combeferre’s finger with his eyes and recites his birthday and address, and let’s Combeferre shine a light in his eyes. (He didn’t actually do the last one. It hurt too much. But he tried to.)

“Nope, no concussion, so, that’s good. Just a hangover. Now, I have to go to work.” Combeferre stands, and when Grantaire tries to join him, he is pushed back down.  
“You can stay.”

Grantaire wants to argue, he really, truly does. He wants to say something snarky and leave and go get a coffee and mope around. He would have, too, except for one thing.

He had fallen asleep, and all of that is very hard to do when not currently awake.

Grantaire wakes up, and checks the nearby clock. It’s noon (when had he first got up?) and the pounding of his skull had disappeared. Grantaire was no stranger to getting drunk and doing stupid stuff, and his hangovers usually went away in a few hours. He could handle himself fine drunk, too. Well, at least, he maintained sentience. Almost all of his shame and impulse control disappeared once he was intoxicated--not that there was ever much to begin with. When Grantaire got drunk, he was aware of what he was doing while he was doing it, but after he had done it? Not so much, at least for a bit. Usually, his memory trickled back to him the day after.

Today was no exception.

And yes, the knowledge of just how obnoxious, just how antagonizing, he had been the night before was enough to make him cringe. Why did he in particular have to suck so bad (it just wasn’t fair, his suckiness by far outweighed his unsuckiness. Why God, why?)

And then he was up, because it was sickening. He was in Combeferre’s bed, in Combeferre’s soft red blankets, and sleeping--like he was a hurt little child--when all that had happened was he had fallen off a table, and into one or two chairs, like the fucking jackass he was.

Grantaire got to the bedroom door before he froze.

Because-because-

Because there, right there on the couch, was Enjolras, typing away on his laptop. (Shit, Enjolras and Combeferre were roommates. How could he have forgotten?)

Beautiful, breathtaking, Enjolras, whose fine features were smooth and glowing in the light from Google Docs, and whose elegant curls were golden in the sunlight streaming in through the window. Enjolras, whose spectacularly blue eyes had shadows beneath that were a little more prominent than normal. Enjolras, whose--gulp--whose meeting Grantaire had ruined the night before. Enjolras, who was looking at him.

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras grinned(?) faintly. “Good morning, R. I hope you’re feeling better.”

Grantaire ran his hand through his hair, and paused. There was a bit of dried blood in it. (That did not matter, that did NOT matter, what mattered was Enjolras, and the fact that Grantaire owed him a big, fat apology.)

“Enjolras, I am so, so sorry for last night. Seriously, words cannot describe…” Grantaire stuttered to a halt, as Enjolras stood. This was it. He was going to be kicked out of the meetings.

Enjolras sighed, agitated. “I know.”

“No, no. Really. I feel terrible. It-It.. I had no right. And I feel so terrible. I don’t even deserve to come, and I understand, really, if-”

Enjolras cut in, earnest as always, but soft. “What happened?”

Grantaire started. This was not what he had been expecting, and not what he wanted to answer.  
“What?”

“You’re...um,” Enjolras shifted. “You’re drinking. It seemed to be getting better, but last night was like, the first time you’d been like that in a while, and I was wondering...If anything had, you know, caused it?”

This was not what he wanted to talk about.

Because, of course something had caused it.  
Because Enjolras, while awkward, was usually pretty direct, but was now stumbling over his words.  
Because he had been doing better, he had.  
Because he had let his friends, Enjolras, himself, down. (It wasn’t a surprise, not exactly, but…)

Because yesterday morning, when most of the Les Amis had met for brunch, he had gotten to the restaurant a little late.  
And he had started to round the corner, where the entrance was, but he had stopped, because he had heard a certain beautiful, song-like voice, urgent and low.

“Listen, I know. I have to do it,” pause. “I just get so angry.” pause. “No, I can’t stop it, or help it, I’ve tried so hard but it’s just getting harder... I swear to God I’m going to tell R tonight, I promise. I have to do it. I really hope he doesn’t come to brunch, I won’t be able to stand it.’’ 

There were other words, of course, but from there...well. Grantaire had kind of gone deaf as he stumbled back to his car and sped away.  
Because this was it...he was never going to get to see them again. Enjolras had finally snapped, and was kicking him out of the meetings. Everyone else would probably side with Enjolras--they had been his friends first--and he would be alone. 

He should have swallowed his pain, and gone to the meeting like normal. Just to enjoy it one last time. Just to enjoy--bask in the presence of-- Enjolras. But Grantaire had never been particularly able to cope with anything unintoxicated. And the tight pressure in his chest was unbearable, and it wouldn’t go away--not until he was well and truly drunk--and he needed it to leave. 

He had thought they were getting a little better--just last week they’d talked for an hour after the meeting had ended. Maybe it had been getting better, but he’d gone and screwed up, because what the fuck else would he have done?  
He had known, deep down, that Enjolras disliked him--no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise. Sure, Enjolras was polite enough to him (sometimes stiffly so.) And Grantaire enjoyed every second that they were together, (how could he not?) but usually, by the end of their conversations, Enjolras had a certain pinched look in his face that showed just how unbearable being near Grantaire really was for him.

Grantaire should have been prepared, really he should have been. He’d been expecting it, for God knows how long. But now it was happening, and Enjolras was so beautiful, and good, and everything Grantaire wasn’t. And Grantaire should have left eons ago, because God knows he did not deserve to be within Enjolras’ godlike presence. And he never would again, not after tonight.

So.

So, Grantaire had gotten shitfaced.

So, Grantaire had ruined his last meeting with all of them together, before it had even started.

So, the rest is history.

Except Enjolras is looking at him, increasingly worried, and Grantaire needs to say something. He should be angry. Enjolras does not have the right to be worried about him.

He wants to say something sharp and biting, wants his voice to refrain from cracking. 

Too bad Grantaire can’t remember the last time he got what he wanted.

“I-I heard you. At Brunch,” He manages to choke out. Enjolras is red-faced. He wasn’t meeting Grantaire’s eyes.

“R-”

“I c-couldn’t stand the thought of being kicked out of the meetings. And I’m sorry. I’ll go,” Grantaire started, tried to push past, ignore the tears on his cheek. (Pathetic.) 

He was stopped by Enjolras’ hand on his arm. He couldn’t move, not with Enjolras touching him, with warm, soft hands that sent lightning up his arm--where it promptly electrocuted his heart, several times.

Enjolras’ expression faltered. “I-you-kicked out?”  
Enjolras tried to pull Grantaire closer, but he tensed. Grantaire was already much too aware of where their skin met. If he got any closer, he would melt into goo and cling to Enjolras and try to worship him like a god deserves to be worshipped, and Enjolras would have to get Combeferre to pry him off with a crowbar.  
And none of them wanted that, so Grantaire stayed rooted in place.

“Grantaire, please look at me.” 

Usually, Grantaire looks at Enjolras as much as he can. He greedily drinks in Enjolras’ visage, stealing glimpses whenever he possibly can.

For the first time in two years, Grantaire cannot look at Enjolras.

“Please, Grantaire. Please.”

And Grantaire wouldn’t have, because his heart felt like it was being absolutely shredded. Except. This was Enjolras, and Grantaire couldn’t deny him anything if his life depended on it.

He slowly looked up.

Enjolras’ intense blue eyes always held such feeling--this moment was no different. They were a little wet, maybe (Why were they wet? Damn Enjolras, and his chivalrous pity). 

There were too many emotions swirling in that endless blue for Grantaire to identify. 

“I wasn’t going to kick you out.”

“Don’t lie to me, God.” Grantaire tried to spit the words so that they were harsh, but they sounded meager and pitiful. (Pathetic)

“No, no. I’m not. I wasn’t,” Enjolras had started looking highly uncomfortable. “I have something to tell you. The-the thing.”

The Thing, oh of course. How could he have forgotten the Thing?

...what was the Thing?

“What?” Grantaire was suddenly a little breathless, for reasons unknown.

“I…” Enjolras took a deep, wavering breath. “I like you--like, I like you. And maybe even love you, a little. Or a lot. That’s what I was going to tell you.” It all came out in one rushed breath, and it took a second to register.

When Grantaire’s brain had caught up, and he was sure he had heard correctly, he barked out a laugh.  
Usually, as a general rule of thumb, Grantaire didn’t laugh at other people’s declarations of love (Yeah, right. As if he’d ever gotten one of those before.)  
He couldn’t help it, though. It was just too ridiculous.

“You don’t love me!”.

“I think I just made it clear that, as a matter of fact, I do.” Enjolras’ face now matched the red of Combeferre’s blanket.

“No, you don’t. You hate me.”

“I don’t!”

Grantaire was starting to feel the tiniest bit--not hopeful, even he wasn’t that delusional--suspicious. “Yeah, you do...”

“Oh…” Enjolras looked troubled. What was troubling him? (Also, how dare he. If anyone had the right to look heartbreakingly troubled, it was fucking Grantaire.) Their eyes met again. Enjolras’ eyes were...shining. Not like, shining with their usual passion and all-around godliness, but actually teary.

“I am so sorry, Grantaire. I feel terrible,” his voice wavered. “But you have to know. I never have, or will, possess anything but the utmost fondness for you. I don’t believe I am even capable of disliking you. I love you, and for the longest time, I have been frustrated at myself for the feelings I possess for you, because you’re annoying and obnoxious and wonderful and I love you, I do.’’ Enjolras wiped his cheek. “I understand if you never want want to talk to me again, because I know that I’ve made you feel horrible and I will never forgive myself for it and I am so, so sorry-”

Grantaire kissed him.

Honestly, why had he waited so long? Obviously, he couldn’t be more enamored at what Enjolras was saying (and again, he kinda stupid). But what, oh what, had possessed him so that he did not kiss Enjolras when the word “like” was first uttered? What did he care if it was a lie? 

But he had cared, because as sucky as Grantaire was, he could only subject himself to so much. So he had asked, and waited, and listened. For a few minutes. For an eternity. 

And apparently, he hadn’t been hallucinating. Or maybe he had been--maybe he still was. (Like previously stated, Grantaire possessed limited impulse control)

So.

So, Grantaire kissed Enjolras. 

So, Grantaire kissed a god, and that god kissed him back. 

So, time and space and the world melted away as their mouths pressed together.  
Grantaire sighed against Enjolras’ lips, pressing closer, closer. Enjolras moaned, just a little, and pressed closer too. 

Their arms wrapped around each other. it was a little wet and a little rough and a little desperate-- but it wasn’t little at all. It was huge, it was immeasurable, and it was the best fucking thing that had ever happened to Grantaire, because just once he was getting what he had wanted, and it was the very thing he wanted more than anything.

Needless to say, nothing, nothing, had ever sucked less.

**Author's Note:**

> No one asked, but:
> 
> Enjolras was (obviously) not red-faced with anger when Grantaire lifted up his shirt. That should go without saying. 
> 
> Also, Grantaire was not in Combeferre's bed, he was in Enjolras', and Enjolras looked sleepier than usual because his fold-out couch is a little uncomfy. The argument that Grantaire didn't pay attention to was between Comberre and Joly. Joly wanted to let Grantaire stay at his place, but Combeferre and Enjolras won because of their fold-out couch. 
> 
> It seems a bit rushed, I guess. But to clarify, Enjolras isn't mean and/or angry at Grantaire all that often, just Grantaire misinterprets anything and everything because he is a Clueless Fool.


End file.
